


Curiosity

by Mallorn



Series: The effects of kallocain [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Interrogation, Krennic lives, Tarkin is a very unpleasant gentleman, implied Tarkrennic, kind of sex pollen but it's a drug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-17 05:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: How does one persuade a stubborn princess to reveal the location of a rebel base? Grand Moff Tarkin has his own secrets, but prefers science to violence and lets Director Krennic finish his dirty work for him.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [The effects of kallocain (Russian version)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18050861) by [Mallorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn)



> This story contains sexual situations with dubious consent - please see end notes for details.
> 
> The substance name in the title is borrowed from the dystopian novel by my compatriot Karin Boye, written in 1941, and in which a truth drug is used to control the citizens of a totalitarian state. Apart from the name of the drug, there are no similarities between this fic and the book. Also, if mad scientist Tarkin intrigues you the slightest, please do check out Peter Cushing’s Frankenstein movies. 
> 
> My sincere thanks to teawithshakespeare, who keeps my prepositions and vocabulary in check.

Finally, they have her. Senator Leia Organa. This slip of a girl, this threat to ultimate order.

Tarkin watches through the monitor how she is captured. Innocent-looking, enthusiastic and with a sharp mind, she is the sort who could instil hope in the dying institution that is the senate. It is over now. Vader has been on her tail ever since the incident on Lothal, always able to sniff her out with his uncanny intuition. Now they have her caught red-handed, in the midst of a transaction with the rebels. And, if that isn’t enough, still in possession of the stolen plans to his perfect weapon. Still a threat to his prize and the Empire’s final victory.

The young princess is clever – the more reason to assume that she has convinced others of her views. It is not unlikely to believe that the rebellious infestation already extends to the rest of the royal family, perhaps the entire ruling class on Alderaan? The more important to snuff it out resolutely before it can spread further. The means are in his power at last.

Or, perchance it would be more effective to send her back as a wing-clipped messenger on a leash? Any of them would be a valuable demonstration; the final choice can wait. First, Vader will have a little conversation with her. There’s so much she could reveal to them, with the right encouragement. The location of the rebel base, perhaps, its forthcoming destruction a worthy retribution for Scarif.

Tarkin’s mind is already made up. Very soon now he will know whether there is any substance to Krennic’s bold declaration of the station’s power.  Calculations are one thing; he has little trust for the minds of engineers and accountants. What he needs is proof.

 

* * *

 

This time, Vader’s intimidation technique proves useless, and the prisoner is too valuable to be subjected to his full repertoire. Tarkin is not entirely displeased with this – it has been some time since he engaged personally in an interrogation. It is also an opportunity for research, although it will never be as satisfying as it was with _him_. For a moment he allows himself a snippet of a memory – eyes, mouth, freckled shoulders –

This must stop. Organa will be a substitute, like all the others, and not a poor one. On a carnal level, she will satisfy him. That will have to do. He fingers the ampoule in his pocket, one he’s been carrying around ever since his meeting with the Director.

An hour later, he turns his attention towards the interrogation room. Senator Organa sits limply in the chair, leaning forward but held in place by restraints around her upper arms, wrists, and ankles, but as he watches, she lifts her head and lets it sink to one side, then the other. She flexes her fingers and stretches her neck. Her eyes are closed, probably more from boredom than out of exhaustion. He smiles. That is about to change, very soon.

He suppresses a hum as he crosses the bridge, satisfied with the manner all snap into attention. All but one, that is. Director Krennic acknowledges his presence by standing in his way and offering to deal with the prisoner. The man looks positively murderous, one could almost believe he thinks himself personally offended by the girl.

“Not now, director,” he says, and rather brusquely bumps the director’s shoulder as he passes. This is not the time to try his patience. There must be no more failed attempts.

The princess barely lifts her head as the door shuts behind him with a hiss. She stares at him warily, gaze filled with passive aggression. A challenge impersonated; is a pity she is way too young to hold his interest. She is a welcome distraction from the memories that plague him daily, the recollections of what he has tasted, but can never have again, not unless –

He interrupts the futile train of thought by pressing his clasped hands even tighter together behind his back; he has no use for regrets.

“Princess,” he says with a courtly nod. “My apologies if the treatment you have received so far is not up to the standards usually enjoyed on your diplomatic missions.”

This is clearly not what she has expected to hear. How interesting. She looks surprised for a moment, then the fighting spirit is back. “Grand Moff,” she says rather belligerently, “so you admit you have wronged me.”

“Far from it.” This is such a pleasure. “You are no longer a diplomat, princess. You are a criminal.”

She receives this news not with the calmness that could be expected from a member of the diplomatic corps, but with wrath. Her hands are shaking in their confinements, knuckles white as she spits, “Prove it!”

“Oh, I am going to, and in a more efficient manner than Lord Vader was able to.” He goes on to remove his tunic, placing it over the back of a chair. Her eyes follow him, with a slight widening as he proceeds to roll up his sleeves. He makes sure to take his time. He stretches his arms, flexes his fingers, tentatively rolls one hand into a fist and studies it. He does not have to wait long for her reaction.

“I’m not afraid of pain!”

“We shall soon see about that.” He takes a step closer. “Princess, what do you know about kallocain?”

“Is this the newest abomination from your laboratory?”

“It is the latest breakthrough in interrogation science.”

“Designed to make your victims suffer, no doubt. I don’t care.” She lifts her pretty head in a perfect gesture of insolence, one it will be his pleasure to crush.

“You wound me, princess. I thought you would approve of the lessened need for violence.”

“Even looking at you is enough to bring me excruciating pain. Just as I’m sure this vile substance does.”

Her venomous words, delivered with such youthful passion, make him smile. “To the contrary, senator. Its effects are said to be extremely pleasurable for the subject, provided proper stimulation is administered. Without such stimulation it will indeed bring discomfort, sometimes ending, regrettably, in death.”

“I couldn’t care less about your nefarious methods. Monster!”

“You, my dear princess, are not in a position to avoid knowledge. Kallocain enhances the sensory signals, and, as a side effect, lowers inhibitions. The full extent of its effects have not yet been revealed. You will add useful knowledge. The Empire thanks you for your assistance.”

“The senate will have your head for this, Tarkin!”

“I think not. The senate is an impotent assembly of fools and dreamers. Our democracy would not last a minute without control of the rebel infestation. Shall we begin?”

At the wave of his hand, the interrogation droid comes to life and descends from its place near the ceiling in the corner. She yells at him and pulls her bonds, to no avail of course. They both watch the needle break the skin on her forearm, and then retract, leaving no trace but the sheen of sweat on her face.

“Not too bad, was it?” he asks with feigned sympathy. “It will take a little while until it takes effect.”

“And then? What have you done with me?” Her voice is shrill now, desperate.

“Did you not listen? You have nothing to be afraid of. Just relax…”

She flinches as he lifts his hand towards her, her lips contorting in disgust when he runs his fingertips over her exposed forearm. He does it again, and all the little hairs stand to attention. He touches her other arm with the same result.

“You vile creature! Leave me alone!”

He steps behind her. Gently like a lover he strokes her hair, then bends to place a kiss at the nape of her neck. A shiver comes over her, but she remains silent. His finger traces the outline of her delicate ears, first one, then the other. He lets his arms glide down hers, the white fabric slipping under his hands with ease. He pauses to push the sleeve up a fraction. Her eyes are glued to his thumb now, just the barest touch of her skin elicits the loveliest little sounds from her. He adds another digit, strokes some more and then stops.

“Please,” she says breathlessly. “Please continue.”

“In a moment.” He holds his fingers just above her skin, teasing. Her muscles contort as she strains to lift her arm. “Just tell me the location of the rebel base.”

“Never.”

She’s still in control of her mind, then. Barely half a minute passes until she begins to groan.

“Just name it.” His voice is silky. “It’s so simple, really. No need for you to suffer.” He cups her cheek as a foretaste of what is to come, if she complies.

“I… I can’t!” She is distressed now, and he gives a few caresses along her shoulders. This is enough to let her relax, for a minute at least, until the discomfort is back.

When he lets his hands glide down her front, she rubs her cheek against his arm like a kitten. Her breasts are ripe to be touched, the nipples straining against the fabric already before he rolls them with his palms. Her mouth is half-open and her sighs decidedly distracting. Were he younger, he wouldn’t hesitate to shut her up with his own lips – as things are, he suspects such an attempt might prove counter-productive. He chooses to remain behind her, out of sight but for his hands playing her. She shivers delightfully, her chest heaving and pressing against him.

He lets one hand travel down her belly, half expecting a protest. There is none, only slightly heavier breathing. Her eyes are shut now, a blissful expression on her face.

While keeping one hand on her, he pulls the chair closer and sits down next to her. One hand remains on her thigh. With the other, he hitches up her dress. There’s so much of it, all soft white, and he can do whatever he wants with it. He snaps his fist closed, crushing the material, then lets go just as quickly. It returns to its previous shape, unconcerned. Just like –. No.

Her thigh is incredibly soft. The restraints hold her ankles, her thighs she is free to move. And she does, parting them at his slightest nudge. Allowing him access, even encouraging him with her moans. His inquisitive fingers reach her core, start gently petting her there. She is so wet, and the sounds she makes when he moves his fingers make him moan aloud. It’s a long time since he had a woman in his bed.

“The location of the base,” he groans. “Name it.”

Her response is incoherent blabber. It takes effort to withdraw his fingers. The sweetness of it, he had almost forgotten, and now, this, is already beyond the limits of what he planned to do with her. What harm is there in taking it even further, with such a willing subject?

“Name it,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Please,” she keens. “I need… please…”

He plunges his fingers into her forcefully. His near loss of control is shameful, but her very vocal encouragement makes him do it again. And again. Until it is almost too late, but then he pulls himself together and settles for flicking her clit with the tip of his digit. She writhes, as if she cannot quite decide whether to press herself against him or shy away. He helps her make up her mind, a thin smile spreading across his lips as she shrieks.

Allowing her a moment’s reprieve, he moves behind her again, fast if somewhat stiffly. He makes his touch featherlight, thumbs gliding gently over nipples. His lips graze her neck and he monitors her closely, and when the moment is right, he presses that sensitive spot between her legs again and brings his lips near her ear. “Where is it? Where?”

He makes a movement as if to remove his hands, and this time she doesn’t hesitate. “Dantooine,” she says. “On Dantooine. It’s there! I swear it!”

Cursing, he gets up, and, turning his back on her, starts walking fast towards the door.

“Don’t go! Don’t leave me here! Please! I gave you what you wanted! I told you!”

He straightens his back and lifts his head a little higher as he leaves the sobbing girl, for the moment ignoring his painfully tight trousers. Sometimes sacrifices need to be made.


	2. The End

When Tarkin returns to the bridge, Krennic still waits, eager for news, and for once almost resembling an underling waiting for orders. He gives them with great satisfaction.

“End her suffering.”

The Director of Advanced Weapons Research nods. A bloody nod, as if his fancy title has any actual significance compared to a Grand Moff. There isn’t a hint of deference in the Krennic’s manners, not the faintest shadow of a ‘yes, sir’ or ‘acknowledged, governor’. That arrogance will be the death of him someday.  Until then, Tarkin reluctantly admits, he is rather entertaining. The enamoured glance he directs at that vulgar DT-29 is nothing less than obscene, the way his glove caresses it before he slips it back into the holster even more so. It’s almost a pity to ruin his fun.

“Not so fast, Krennic,” he says, finger in the air for emphasis. “There is no need to be that drastic. Use your… imagination.” He stares the other man in the face until he looks away. Then he adds, an explanation offered as a reward for reasonable behaviour, “I need a witness in good condition for tomorrow’s demonstration.”

Krennic’s insolent pout dissolves into a sinister smile. Tarkin cannot tell which of the director’s many faces gives him the most satisfaction. That thought is a bloody lie. He must not.

As the director leaves, the ridiculous cape waving behind him, Tarkin goes to his control room. Senator Organa is indeed much too young for his tastes, Director Krennic is not. As he reaches the chair in front of the monitor he is already stroking his hand over his pants.

He can only smirk at the sight of Krennic’s daredevil entrance, at how he rushes into the room with his cape flapping and his blaster held high. He freezes. The princess’ lack of reaction is disturbing. Not nearly enough time has passed in touch deprivation to make her unconscious. Such miscalculation on his part is unforgiveable. He fingers the ampoule again, while the other hand slowly cups his groin.

What he sees next makes him stare at the screen, wide-eyed.

* * *

Leia barely registers her surroundings. A person in white enters, an ISB officer most likely. He’s possibly waving a weapon, but her discomfort is already too much for her to care. He shouts something, and then… she has to squeeze her eyes shut at the wave of pain that shakes her, there are flashes of white heat and it hurts –

Suddenly all is soft, quiet bliss. She vaguely becomes aware of something, someone between her parted thighs. A man is kneeling on the floor, his light-brown hair speckled with grey, and his eyes as he looks up at her are as blue as the waterfalls of her home planet. His mouth is half-open, his lips glisten with – could that really be – and the itching ache in her core is gone. Another, smaller cramp comes over her, and now she sees it, what he must have been doing before. His tongue comes out and he licks a broad stripe over her slit. The discomfort eases momentarily. The man smiles now, a proud expression like a schoolboy expecting praise for an exercise well done. With a glove-covered hand, he pulls the hem of her dress down enough to cover her thighs partly.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice hoarse from crying. “Thank you so much, you have no idea…” But he has, doesn’t he? He’s one of them.

The man rises and takes a step back as he straightens his shoulders and strikes a flattering pose. She freezes, recognising him now.

“Director Krennic.”

“The same.”

“They talk about you in the senate.” Perhaps not the most elegant phrase, but she must keep her mind off the throbbing between her legs that has started anew. The director isn’t technically her enemy, and he’s very attractive.

“The senate?” He preens. “And what does the senate have to say about my achievements?” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then bites the knuckle. This time it’s not only the drug that makes her tingle.

“They say you are the architect behind this… this…” She cannot bear to take its ugly name in her mouth.

“I am. The DS-1 is my creation. This formidable weapon will bring peace to the entire galaxy.”

“This abomination has no right to exist!”

His face becomes red. “Rebel scum,” he hisses.

“Empty acc-u-sa-tions!” Another seizure shakes her, and with only a moment’s hesitation he’s kneeling with his hand underneath her dress. It’s even more absurd now to find him the instrument of her wellbeing. “Director,” she says, quickly and in a tone suitable for her role as a diplomate, “My apologies. I thank you once more. Perhaps if you untie me, I can handle any future incidents on my own.”

Appeased, he lays a finger on his chin and cocks his head. “I could free your arm, maybe. Or will you scratch my face if I do?”

Sha shakes her head vigorously, feeling her cheeks burn.

He frees both arms, even turns away while she attempts to deal with her problem.

“It doesn’t work,” she exclaims, causing him to turn back towards her. “Why doesn’t it work?!”

“You anticipate your own touch,” he offers. “And the merits of self-gratification tend to be inferior to what can be achieved with a partner.”

“Please.”

This time is entirely different. Burying her hands in his hair is strangely satisfying. It is thick, glossy, and he makes encouraging little sounds when she pulls it.

She sighs. “Director, I’m afraid I’ll continue to beg for your assistance until this condition passes.”

“You know how it works,” she adds, studying the man as she does. He blushes and flinches just the barest little bit.

“Who? I?” His uneasy smile doesn’t quite remove the impression that he’s been in closer contact with the drug than he wishes to. Maybe it’s always his job to cater to the prisoners’ survival. The alternative is a little too disturbing to consider, even if Tarkin’s reputation of ruthlessness has always been well-deserved.

“How long until the effects pass?”

“A few hours at least, maybe through the night.”

She grimaces. There’s no time for this. The station plans are safe enough where they are, but one cannot rely on a droid, even one as faithful as R2D2. The alliance needs the information, and soon. She must break free, but she is of no use while she is crippled by the drug. A few more hours and it should have passed through her system. Until then, her best bet is to win Krennic’s trust and ensure his continued assistance. Their political views couldn’t be more different, but at least he has passable manners. He is also more easy on the eyes than should be allowed for a man his age.

“Is there no way to speed it up?”

He smirks. It’s an annoying little smile, which combined with his gaze is quite irresistible.

“Tell me. I’ll give you what you want, just don’t waste my time.”

“How about the truth?”

“About what? I already told him. Tarkin.” Another cramp comes over her, but this time it’s different. It’s uncomfortable enough, but the pain is no longer crippling. She can almost stand it, almost, yes… no… please… Her voice contorts into a cry until he’s there again, holding her, stroking her everywhere. “Thank you,” she says and straightens her clothes.

“Sex,” he states.

She studies him. She never counted on having to use her body to serve the Rebel Alliance, but she is prepared to do what it takes. For the cause. And it isn’t as if he doesn’t have intimate knowledge of her body already, a realisation that should be disturbing rather than make her ponder what he might look like underneath his uniform. How his bare hands would feel against her skin, his mouth…

“It will remove the drug from your system faster,” he continues. “Penetrative coitus is best, especially if there’s an exchange of fluids.”  He studies his nails while he speaks, as if he’s a little unfazed having this discussion, or at least pretends for her sake. It’s rather cute.

She takes the plunge.

 “I want that,” she declares, for the moment putting thoughts on her mission away.

“You do, senator Organa? In this case, may I offer my assistance?” He bows, as if he was asking for a dance, and sounds more as if they’d met at a state function on Coruscant.

“Would you please, ahem –” She looks around; what she is about to say will sound absurd in the barren room, but she knows no other expression she is comfortable with. She stares him straight in the eye. “Please take me to bed.”

If he is surprised by her request, he doesn’t show it. Rather, he beams at her.

“It’d be my pleasure,” he responds. “The logistics are a bit challenging, though.”

“You could always free my legs,” she suggests quickly. “I won’t run, I promise. Besides, I couldn’t get far.” She smiles uneasily. It’s all too true. And if the dose was calculated wrong, she might even die before she comes back to normal.

“This room is secure,” he says. “And giving you a little more freedom of movement does indeed sound tempting.” His expression becomes predatory. Isn’t his hand a little too close to that oversized blaster he sports? And what was his purpose here anyway? She’s not letting him _fuck_ her if he’ll shoot her afterwards.

“Tarkin sent you to kill me,” she says with icy calm.

The statement catches him unawares. “Come on. Would I bother eating you out if I planned to – , nah, you wound me, senator.”

“I did everything he said, and he abandoned me. He wants me dead.”

Krennic chuckles. There is nothing to laugh about here. “Trust me, if he did, there would be little I could do.” His face contorts as with unpleasant memory.

“So why are you here, then, Director? Charity? Or as part of some sick scientific experiment?”

“My orders are to end your suffering,” he says, every trace of good mood gone. “That can be achieved by various means.”

He’s untying her ankles now, rather harshly, and she should kick him in the groin, but she finds she can’t. She tries to stand but falls into his arms.

“Steady, princess.” He smiles at her helplessness, stroking her hair, and his arm around her back is so warm and strong she could cry. The drug stirs inside of her again and she claws at his uniform, hangs on to it for dear life.

“Again?” he asks, unnecessarily.

“Bed,” she groans. “Please, now.” She manages to press her thighs together, but it does nothing for her until he inserts his hand between them. It is wonderful and all too little. She begins to whimper, is there no end to this?

Then she’s in his arms, being carried, and although he’s not touching her intimately, there’s enough of body contact to keep the disease at bay. The door swooshes open at his command. Outside is a nondescript grey corridor, with stormtroopers outside every door. The one closest to the left opens.

“This is the best I can offer under these circumstances,” he says. The room is clearly a detention cell, but it has a padded bunk along the right-hand wall.

He sets her down onto it, then sits beside her. His tunic and her dress are almost the same colour. She lays her hand in his and he strokes the back of it with his thumb, then turns it over and traces the lines in her palms. His head is so close to hers they’re almost touching.

She smiles. She is his at that moment, here, now. It’s not just her womb throbbing and her skin burning. There’s a flutter in her heart as well, and a surge in her belly from how he makes her feel. Treasured. Wanted. Approved.

“Please kiss me,” she says and instantly wonders if she’ll regret it later. She hates all he stands for, and she knows that in the morning she’ll hate him, too. Not now. “Help me pretend.”

“There’s no need. This is real. The desire you feel is your own.”

She wants to believe him. These eyes cannot possibly lie, and if they do, she chooses to denounce truth. His lips look so warm, so inviting.

She kisses him.

It takes him a moment to catch on, but when he does it’s like nothing she’s experienced before. He’s firm, and soft, and warm, and just when she thinks she’s figured out what he feels like, he does something with his tongue and she has to start over again. His hands are wonderfully large. She can only reach so little of him, but she is nimble. Even with the added complication of the cape, his tunic is off before the kiss is over.

He rises then, to remove his boots, she thinks, but instead he takes a step towards the door, turns and stares at her.

“Come back to bed,” she says in a sultry voice. Her dress has slipped off of one shoulder, just in case he needs encouragement. The tingling between her legs is stronger again. She wants him. Now.

“I will,” he says. His expression is strange; a sense of malicious triumph oozes off him. “But first, you will suffer. You tried to destroy everything I’ve worked for since before you were born.”

It’s surreal. She grows cold, too shocked to even try halting him before he’s gone. It’s a strange feeling, hating someone and relying on them for your survival.

* * *

 She doesn’t die. She. Does. Not. Die.

Somehow, this fact is more important than the pain. Somehow, she manages to wrap her thoughts around her like a protective shield that separates her from the tormented shell that is her body.

Director Krennic’s return breaks her concentration; it shatters the shield and her desire flares again. It is a white-hot need now, a necessity, and she crawls to him on her knees. Her hands grope the bulge in his trousers.

“Impressed?” he asks, preening.

“Very.” She knows instinctively what he wants to hear and is not in a position to deny him a silly compliment. She wants him.

“Then you shall have me, princess.” He crouches to her level and lifts her up. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him. All that matters is that he’s hers now, and this time she’s not letting go. She rains kisses over his face, tugs his hair, lets her tongue tickle his ear.

They leave their clothes on, there’s no time for anything else. As soon as he sets her down, she leans back onto the bunk, pulling him with her. He feels wonderful pressing against her, and she loves how he’s a little breathless already. Because of her. She wraps her legs around his hips and grinds up against him. His hands fumble with his trousers and then she feels him, skin against skin.

“Yes,” she urges him on. “Now, now, now.”

His grunt as he enters her is delightful, almost as much as the feeling of fulfilment. She inserts her hands underneath his undertunic; his back is warm and strong and present. She holds him like that as he pushes into her, rocking them both softly at first, then with more force. “Just like that,” she moans quietly, sensing his pride. He maintains the pace far longer than any young man she’s known and it’s so plain good, so satisfying. This time it’s his mouth that seeks hers out and she opens for him, lets him mimic the motions below with his tongue and sucks it until he lets go, panting.

“Like this?” he asks.

She’s past feeling adventurous today. On her back, being fucked into a thin mattress in a detention cell is the height of her existence for now and she’s perfectly happy with it. “Yes,” she replies, already giddy with approaching orgasm. “Like this. Please. And now, yes, now – ”

He becomes loud then, accompanying each thrust with a sound that is half moan, half laughter. His eyes shine, his face contorts with effort and it’s the most beautiful sight. She starts making her own sounds, high-pitched and jubilant, and they press on together, chasing the moment of glory.

When it comes, she’s in love.

* * *

 Tarkin continues to watch, his most pressing business long since completed, but the display is too intriguing to interrupt even after the main event has passed.

When Krennic left the cell in anger he nearly intervened. Watching Organa’s struggle made him tremble and hold the ampoule so hard he had to put it away, afraid to crush it. He does not know how she made it. That Krennic toyed with her life in violation of direct orders should make him furious. Instead, the man’s unabashed boldness entices him.

Now, Organa is sitting on the bunk with her head in her hands, stricken with remorse.

“The after-effects of kallocain are spectacular,” Krennic remarks. “It all becomes so clear – what he did, what you begged him to do. You know you betrayed yourself, and you still remember how much you wanted it.”

She nods, her fists clenched.

“You’re a despicable being, senator,” he continues with a hint of bitterness. “Still, there’s a chance you’ll get out of this alive.”

“I’ll escape!” She yells at the director and the camera both.

His nostrils flare with poorly suppressed anger when he responds, staring straight into the camera. “You will not. Even if you manage to flee, the memories will haunt you.”

Tarkin turns off the monitor and, sighing, collapses into the chair. The ampoule on the table looks like an accusation now. He really should have limited the initial testing to military personnel from the lower ranks.

Still, he longs for the day when he will have the courage to try it on himself. That smirk. So much white. He pockets the ampoule resolutely. One day he will know.

**Author's Note:**

> Special note re. dubious consent in this story: The sexual situations shown take place while one character is drugged and thus not able to give their consent (although the actions are very much desired at the time).


End file.
